


half past loving

by orphan_account



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:32:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stages of love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	half past loving

They didn't call it a relationship. That was because it wasn't one.

It all started when Johnny got his heart broken, back in '06. Stéphane hadn't even really intended to _be_ there in the first place, he'd just been passing by Johnny's room and Johnny had been sitting on the floor outside, cellphone in his hand, staring, face blank. Not something that happened often, Johnny Weir was not known for being expressionless.

"Is something wrong?" he'd asked, because that was what you usually asked when someone had _that_ expression on their face. And also, well, Stéphane liked Johnny, and he was a friendly person. He thought lending a sympathetic ear - especially one from someone who did know heartbreak - might be the prudent thing to do.

"No," Johnny replied, smoothly lying. "Nothing wrong at all." He got up from his sitting position, and just as Stéphane turned to leave, he said, "Wait."

Stéphane looked at him.

Johnny seemed to steel himself, eyes narrowing as he reverted back inside, cheeks reddened - but not from embarrassment; anger, instead, and that was worrisome to say the least. Stéphane tilted his head. "What?"

"Any chance you'd like to fuck?"

It only took him aback for a second, then he considered. He shouldn't, he knew, and Johnny _definitely_ shouldn't, but then, he was only human. And it was Johnny asking.

 

III

 

 _anger_

The first time they fuck, it's hard and painful and it's just the two of them, mating like tigers on feather white sheets, rubbing cocks together and gasping and cursing as they get off on each other. They don't kiss, they fight almost, fingernails down Stéphane's back and and hard bite on Johnny's shoulder and when Stéphane, a second later, licks over it with his tongue, letting his fingers close around both their erections, they're both done, coming hard.

 

III

 

Johnny had never said anything, but Stéphane had heard it from various people, about him having problems with his lover, and he felt a little ashamed for having used a situation for sex in which Johnny had been vulnerable; probably, Johnny'd have benefitted more from a listener.

Then again, it wasn't like Johnny hadn't asked. So he lived, and he wasn't even, admittedly, all that surprised when rumour was Johnny was back together with whoever it was he belonged with.

 

III

 

 _pain_

The second time they fuck, it's nothing like the first time. They go at it slow, way slower than before, and Johnny cries a little when Stéphane touches his thigh, his left knee, his ankle, when he caresses Johnny's fingers, his elbow, the sharp line of his collarbone.

Stéphane doesn't ask, at all, because he doesn't want to know, but Johnny tells him anyway, because he can't not say anything when someone's looking at him like that.

"I'm just a little bruised," he explains himself, and it's not really true, but then, they both know that isn't what he means at all.

 

III

 

The thing was, fucking around in secret was a lot harder than most people ever imagined it to be; it was hellishly complicated to find spots where nobody would think to find them when they were together. When they weren't... well, that was easier, but not by much, because Stéphane couldn't really stop thinking about it. And planning new ways to meet up, to spend more time together, even if it was just sex.

Johnny didn't seem to mind so much, except that one time.

 

III

 

 _shame_

That one time, when Stéphane kisses him slow and lazy and stays inside him even after they've both come, buried in his body and looking for a closeness that doesn't exist, Johnny pushes him off and starts dressing immediately.

Stéphane can feel it coming off of him in waves, a sensation of embarrassment, as if he owes anybody an explanation for what he does, and that's just wrong.

"You don't need to go," he tries, because, well, it's the only thing he can think of.

"I need to," Johnny says, and he's flushing miserably. Clearly, he doesn't even want this.

The question is, why then, does he still call?

 

III

 

The question answered itself when Johnny stopped, as Europeans passed and Worlds approached on slow steady steps. He didn't call, not even once, not even to ask whether they'd hook up again to fuck, and that hurt, but not so much as it made Stéphane feel like he was getting strung along by his heart and unable to do anything about it.

He wasn't usually so liberal with his heart, so it surprised him that after only a few hours of sex summed up, not even a real conversation - as they'd stopped when they'd started - he could be so wholly, so deeply, gone over one person.

Then again, that had been how he'd discovered figure skating. It hadn't even taken an hour.

 

III

 

 _loneliness_

Johnny comes, during Worlds, and he comes, and comes, and comes again; they have sex like people stranded on a tiny island with no salvation in sight. It feels like a cherishing of last hours, like they're doing this before it slips away, forever.

Johnny is a skilled lover, enters him quickly, without much pain, and even kisses, kisses like he skates, with elegant twirls of his tongue and a breath-taking ease that makes Stéphane think he has a chance.

He doesn't, of course.

 

III

 

If they didn't see each other all summer, it was neither of their faults, really. Stéphane was able to use YouTube, after all, and he'd seen the disaster that had been Nationals. He hadn't been sure Johnny'd have wanted to hear from him, and anyway, he didn't call, and that wasn't a one-way street.

Instead, he practiced, kept up with all the news about Johnny's progress, his well-being, never too close, never so that Johnny'd find out, never prodded where it was ill-advised and only asked when it was confidential and curteously presented.

Johnny didn't look at him once when he placed second after the short in China, and really, when their gazes did meet, later, he could only look away, flushed, full of something Stéphane couldn't decipher.

 

III

 

 _guilt_

"I've been using you."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to _me_." Johnny looks at him, really looks at him, eyes wide and full of regret, and he may be naked, beautiful, beautiful shoulderblades, the way the sheets pool around his hips making his waist seem so tiny, as if he was the most fragile boy on earth, but in that moment, Stéphane hates him, because he finally gets it.

"I see," he says slowly.

"I don't know what to say," Johnny says, and then, "I never meant to - I mean, I _can't_ have a relationship right now, I just can't, I... I never meant to make you think there was a chance."

"It doesn't matter," Stéphane repeats, and his voice sounds shallow to his own ears, but then, it's not like he has anyone but himself to blame. He just thought if Johnny could get up there, come back full force, one of those on top who manage to have their skating and a life in addition - that he could, maybe, that _they_ might -

"I'm so sorry."

"I should get going," Stéphane says uneasily, and starts to move off the bed where they'd just fucked, because that was all it ever was. He feels embarrassed, and stupid, like - well. Like one of those people who think they can have a casual relationship without it growing, becoming a fucking plague across the whole wide continent.

Johnny bites his lip. "I didn't know," he says honestly.

"It's not your fault."

Of course, in a way, it is exactly his fault, for being so goddamn like everything Stéphane's ever looked for, mixed into a single person, but he can hardly say that, so he just repeats it once more, to take the blame, because there really is no question about who that belongs to, and he leaves.

It feels a little bit like dying.

 

III

 

It wasn't as hard as Stéphane had imagined, going on with life like before, only without the occasional sex. It wasn't like it had been more than four, five times that year anyway, and if he really needed it, there were always boys and girls willing to give it a go for one night.

Stéphane tried to stay, a couple times, just to look whether it'd work with anyone else, someone who might be actually available, but of course, it didn't, and he was pretty much stuck. He should have known better, he really should have, but then again, what good does it ever do to berate oneself after the wine's spilled? One fixes the mess and moves on, and if there's a stain on the carpet, well, covering it up is not that big an act.

That was the mindset with which he went on for almost two years. After the first few weeks, he had Johnny convinced he really didn't blame him for anything, and after a few months, they even emailed occasionally, about how things were going, how life left them no time for anything, as always; never too personal, but more, ironically, than they'd had during that one year they'd shared a bed and nothing more.

It was a slow friendship. It might have been, Stéphane sometimes thought with a smile, the slowest friendship in the history of human friendship, but then, at least it was friendship. And anyway, friendship was really rare among competitors.

They didn't let it affect their work, and that was the important thing.

 

III

 

 _fear_

The one time they make love, it's after the Olympics Stéphane can't participate in because his knees have finally given up on him, making him unable to perform any kind of triple jump. Johnny wins, of course. Stéphane watches from backstage, and smiles, because that's his boy all right.

Afterwards, they wind up drinking too much wine and first he fucks Johnny, makes him beg for release that comes with a gasp and a moan, and a soft, inaudible pronounciation of his name, 'Stéphane', low and throaty and with a movement of lips Stéphane kisses away immediately. Then Johnny gives back as good as he got, more slowly, less urgent, taking his time pacing his motions just perfectly, a little bit like his quad out there.

Stéphane's never been prouder of anything he hasn't accomplished himself.

When they wake up in the morning, candles burned out, dinner still stading around the room that smells of wax and smoke, they're both hung-over, and they're both afraid, so afraid of what the other may say that they fall over each other offering up excuses for what happened.

"It was twice," Stéphane thinks later, while he's walking back to the hotel room he's booked, one street down, carrying a plastic cup of coffee, "and he let me spend the night."

"It happened," Johnny thinks as he lies back and inhales deeply, squeezing his eyes shut to get rid of the hammering heartbeat in his chest. "It happened, and it was the best damn thing and I've missed him so much."

It only takes him half an hour more of scared anticipation and that heaving sensation in his belly before he picks up his cell and dials.

After all, he's won. What is winning worth, if he can't have what he wants now?

It's over.

 

III

 

They knew of course, that at some point, someone was going to find out about it, pretty fast even, because: two former world-class figure skaters - male figure skaters - hooking up, hooking up in a way that meant house in Canada and puppies and lots of land in the back and exchanged rings, barely a year after the Olympics.

Well, they actually couldn't care less. After all, Johnny was happy skating the occasional tour and gala and otherwise writing his columns, and Stéphane... Stéphane was happy, more than happy, and if his new fashion collection was a bit heavy on the ladybugs, well, people wouldn't notice. Hopefully.

 

III

 

 _joy_

"Don't spill -"

"Damn, look, can you just hold it one second -"

"No, no, I'm not touching -"

"Johnny, don't be such a fucking chicken, it's not that hot -"

"It's ver-ry hot, and I'm not burning my fingers to charcoal -"

"It's a cup of goddamn coffee I made so that you can have that caffein kick you need every morning, the one that will make you open your eyes and fuck me silly already."

Johnny smirks. "Someone's horny."

Stéphane narrows his eyes. "You better not have been getting any, the week I was gone."

"Oh, right, forgot to mention, Evan was here and he offered - argh! Help! He's killing me!"

There is nobody there to hear, of course, because it's their home, and anyway, it's good that nobody is, because Stéphane uses the momentum to tumble Johnny into the pillows, fuck the cup of coffee that lands on the floor beside the bed, and proceeds to show him exactly what dying really feels like.

It's not so bad at all.

 

III


End file.
